Ahmad, Bala and Chong were only 12 and sitting for their UPSR when they met Darren. Darren had just moved into their neighborhood and was attending the same school as the trio. Now you see Darren, was a very recluse boy. He ate his lunch by himself on the stairs outside the classroom and seldom ever spoke. Chong was Darren's classmate but even he had never heard the boy speak more than two words; 'yes' and 'no'. Darrenrajesh Kah-Ming Newman. Now with a name like that and a yellowish-brown skin color with dirt-brown hair, he definitely got some questioning looks from teachers on his first day. A nickname amongst students soon developed. In, for lack of better words, civilized terms, his name suggested 'Mongrel'. The children figured, well, his color was not something they were used to and his name suggested that he was a bit of everything thus he should be ostracized further. And so on and so forth.
See, the three boys were really good, well-mannered little tot's that somehow had that perfect upbringing and superb morals amongst other commendable qualities, which led them to say hi to the new boy and offer to eat together. Darren just nodded his head and followed them to the canteen. He sat and listened as the three boys shared about their classes and how Mr. Lee was being grumpy in Chong and Bala's class. Ahmad sighed and groaned because he had Mr. Lee for Math right after recess. Darren ate his sandwich in silence, concentrating on their every word, rhythming it to his chewing when suddenly Bala, the most vocal among the three, turned to Darren and said, "Actually, what race are you?" Darren looked at him most puzzled, cleared his throat and said, “I am Malaysian”
To which Chong replied, “So are we, but what race are you? I’m a Chinese, Bala is Indian and Ahmad is Malay. You?”
On Darren’s forehead grew a frown. His lip curled in thought and finally he looked at them and said, “I don’t know.”
Darren could only relate to being a Malaysian because it was exactly what he was. His father was half English and Indian whilst his mother was half Chinese and Burmese. He spoke the English language at home and ate curries, herbal soup, belacan rice, spaghetti and well, rice. He went to church on Sundays and celebrated Chinese New Year, Christmas, Deepavali and Hari Raya too because his uncle and aunt married Muslims. He was from a Malaysian race. Multi-cultural. And so on and so forth.
The three boys looked at each other and burst out in laughter. “You are Eurasian la dummy! Serani!” said Ahmad choking with laughter. The recess bell then rang and the boys took their plates and bowls back to the stalls, washed their hands and chattered on as they made their way back to their classes. Darren’s mind was still trying to digest the revelation of his race. He turned and looked around. Chinese girls and boys. Malay girls and boys. Indian girls and boys. He pondered for a moment.
As they reached their classroom Darren stopped Chong and in an almost pathetic pleading look asked, “What do I write in my IC when they ask for my race? My birthday is next week!”
Chong gave Darren a pat on the back and smiled, “You put ‘Others’ of course!” as they took their designated seats in class.
